Addiction is not merely the repetition of pleasure, but a drug's capacity to co-opt the body’s systems — much like a virus — for its own symbiotic, self-perpetuation.
When we conflate this bio-chemical entanglement with the psychological effects of behavior, we mistake appetite for affliction and misdiagnose the very nature of human cravings.
This isn't just "Semantics". It misdirects therapy, moral judgment, and public policy.
In dreams, I’m where the music plays.
I’m listening to the laughter, like it’s in another room.
My drink is dark, bitter and oaky tasting
and the peanuts taste like soap.
There aren’t any napkins.
Others are lines of light and shadow.
I feel an anxiety that I gnaw on,
like a dog works a bone.
My dream’s conflating memories.
Suddenly Lisa’s there,
she comes up from behind,
“Aww, your tag is sticking out,” she says,
but before she can fix it,
I hear tower bells.
It’s my alarm.
.
.
Webster: Conflate: “to blend or bring together.”
MELIORISM
This world stings like the scorpion,
And I will not filter in her tears,
This I said because I’m a champion,
Only throwing jabs, it really wears!
Like the faeces of a chameleon,
She stinks in her odourless sheers,
Truly this world bites in oblivion.
And never to be seen in klaipeda _
The elysian sky has deceived me,
Leaving behind their propaganda;
This dark ominous mangles me...
The tenet of retronym in obscurity,
Why we can walk without security.
The quell for fairness may wither,
As we skulk in together!
The gargoyle mole of pains...
Hardship is loose and unfettered;
As we wallow in this sane oneiric,
That never sought for the kindred,
Of conflate moth of harangue...
The axiomatic mild of the youths,
The automatic bunkum in heroism,
The cosplay to this hilarious pains,
The syringe to my bitter whinge.
To saudade for the shadows of life,
A vain wait for meliorism!
When will it get back bitterly better?
Written: November 13, 2023
____________________________________________
The exhausted soul's speech is faint.
In response to the voice of dream.
When faith lends its way to conflate
The exhausted soul's speech is faint.
Where the bloom faded with berate
lack of mind and frame as soul screams
The exhausted soul's speech is faint.
In response to the voice of dream.
Written: November 05, 2023
________________________________________
Amidst spotless linen rosebuds
I observe you blazing a fire
In the core of a volcano's lair
slithering
glissading
laughing
Queen of the Sun,
Queen of Earth
angels shielding you with their wings
to quench one's thirst
for my vital breath.
A warm deluge of your embrace,
sets my skin into full bloom-
a mellifluous anemone aroma,
and marigold of whimsey bloom
wandering to my cynosure edge
the scorching primeval route;
you leave lush roots for our offspring
to nurture demesne orchards.
On the sands of your sunken tracks,
where conflate ponds
xerox the gleam of fire;
and trees widen limbs,
to embosom
sapphire sky for spring
and descry a year's cornucopia,
of succulent, velvety fruit.
In languish sleep, so went her fate
through loveless marriage, mired in hate.
Soft-spoken words that now chastise
his world, of stranger’s scents and spies;
gold, traded for some silverplate.
Just once forbidden fruit she ate
her endless strangled passions sate
she made this bed on which she lies
in languish sleep.
Suspicions she dared not set straight
this is a world she did create;
where every little word implies;
one now where she averts her eyes
and lives where love and guilt conflate
in languish sleep.
The writer always
wants to sing
And the singer
wants to paint
The painter fancies
he could dance
To the dancer
songs conflate
The greenest grass
it seldom grows
Where you now
make your bed
As wishes stray
and hopes betray
What might have been
—instead
(Dreamsleep: June, 2023)
Almond promises
round oval drops
dripping song to fall
in neon light
His stares of hope
conflate when she comes
your everyday Cleopatra
cascades lofty
Acorn kisses
hanker sweet footsteps to be
on time
mystique on the commonest day
burrowed deep in the recesses
A mob of crows conflate a raucous debates
with sweet songs.
They gather
on the broken branches of Autumn,
they fill the leafless spaces
that now are only naked windows
for a colorless sky.
An ad hoc hectoring
of dark and light notes shakes a cold wind -
a song sheet for the fallen and failing.
If you watch and listen
to that black-winged rabble
all will turn into the glossy iridescence
of ethereal harp music
played solo upon the few twigs left
within these stark woods.
SHAPES
so playful
&
revelatory
yet
& strange
captivating
meticulous
& exquisite
full
of
conceived
emotion
a stunning
series
of radiants
striations
dotted here
& there
with a
sense
of
the evocative
ambiguity
to
evoke
an
array
of
the
subtle
to
conflate
&exquisitely
condense
the
understatement
back &forth
in
a
rectilinear
seam
of nothingness
in
a
visual diary
of
yesterdays
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
‘Forever’ drops through the cracks of time.
The everlasting is a way of saying never-lasting.
We had to change its meaning
for the sake of the children
for those who need nursery rhymes,
and the nursery rhymes are too deep
for the children to comprehend.
The ‘children’ are ancient, ageless,
they live on
in the collective unconsciousness.
So we make-up words that mean
the opposite of their true meaning.
'Love' for instance,
love does not mean love something
or anything. Love objectified
outside of you is a mirage.
If you add forever to the word ‘love’
you conflate an idea with a reality.
When you have something to give,
then you can give.
Without this self-loving
you have nothing to offer.
You can only truly love yourself.
Without this understanding
love becomes for-never.
Some say words are powerful
yes and no –
for unless you know the root of a word
you will not know the truth of a word.
While volcanoes rehearse to show their teeth
lovers shouting from the well of the house
wave broken condoms rather than broken trust
conflate dissent on self-erasing slates
and prove worse than the old oxen
long following circuitous ways
billowing opposition, discalced defenders
they all assert superior dishonesty
sell cheap what is most dear or make
offences of new affections
I carry the tomb of unburied days
--R K Singh
I'm up to my eyeballs in tawdry disguises -
let women wear auras or no clothes at all!
Let men naked roam too! Dark skin, white, sans tattoo,
and the light of day see just what's bought and what's me!
Should my poems more suit you or dress down all sizes,
Conflate cows deemed sacred with pigs that appall?
Do metaphors obfuscate, or catch one napping -
do meter and rhyme feed or threaten belief?
Is a Lotus one drives, just a bloom one contrives
to take focus away from crass things one might say?
Is a plunging neckline more release or a trapping,
(gill net) for unschooled? There's allure, but no beef?
God's truth can't be mine though my head's a humdinger -
all-natural, unswollen, upstart in art!
I'm a retrograde poet, who feels more a butt
for colliding with free verse, that others traverse
as if skiing downhill. But for me, rhyme's the bringer
of what's in the pipe! My brain plays a bit part!
Brian Johnston
25th of June in 2020
Political Unrest
Written: by Tom Wright
2-20-2020
On a stage in Vegas for the latest debate,
Stood Democratic combatants, two less than eight.
On stage to get our vote and hopefully donate,
Them devouring each other tended to frustrate.
Because political hearts harbor so much hate,
Each time someone spoke the remainder would berate.
To each others ideas none seemed to relate,
My mouth became dry and I had need to hydrate.
I didn't see it all because the hour had grown late,
But capitalism and socialism won't conflate.
The lesser of two evils will be on our plate,
Before voting time arrives, pray and contemplate.
I’ll lay party aside and vote for the person who
matches up closest to God’s word.
Tom
Drain no vim rain in vain
On pursuits which gather you
A blend of strain and pain.
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